The Other Holmes Sibling
by Qwirkykeyboard
Summary: In which Araminta, Sherlock's twin, long presumed dead, turns up in 221B. A spin off from when Mycroft mentions that there was another sibling - this is my idea on what they'd be like.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters, blah blah blah**

The _other _Holmes sibling

A black cab pulled up outside 221b Baker Street, and Sherlock jumped out quickly and hopped up to the front door, leaving a very grumpy John to pay the taxi driver.

'Ok Sherlock I'll pay _again _shall I? Just because you're on a case doesn't mean you have the right to ignore basic manners.'

'Oh for God's sakes John, stop whining like a teenage girl.'

'Right, well I'm not buying any more milk until you take the initiative and go to the shops yourself. I find it astonishing how you can deduce everything about a client by looking at their phone but a simple shopping trip … oh no, that's way too complicated for an intellect like yours.'

John handed the money to the driver, who sped off, looking relieved at getting away from the two men (not surprising really, since Sherlock had told him that his girlfriend was in fact cheating on him with his brother and that he bore all the hallmarks of a chronic stroke sufferer). Sherlock, who was just about to step inside turned and glared at John for insulting his intelligence.

'Says the man who had a row with a self-service checkout? Really John, you excel yourself with that hypocrisy.'

He began running up the stairs, coat billowing behind, with John following.

'Well at least I actually have the courage and decency to try. You won't go out to buy anything. I reckon you're secretly scared of cartons of milk.'

'Don't be absurd John. I just can't do with cluttering up my head with the bother of buying milk – important stuff will get forgotten. And there's so much useless stuff to think about when shopping- which brand of milk, do I want semi skimmed, skimmed or full fat, long life, fresh, organic … Why can't there just be one type? All the rest is just confusing and pointless.'

'Oh, so the Achilles heel of the great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire, is milk? Moriarty shouldn't have bothered with his evil plan to get you to jump off St Bart's; he should have just taken a load of cartons of milk up to the roof and showed them to you. That would have done the trick. In fact, I might try that next time you try practising the violin at three in the morning …'

They had now reached the door to the flat, and Sherlock was just turning the key in the lock.

'Do shut up John, your inane babbling is liquidising my brain.'

The door swung open. But Sherlock didn't go into the fact. He was shocked and irritated when he heard the sound of the shower going. It hadn't been on when he left, and it couldn't have been Mrs Hudson because she was away for the weekend. Besides, she'd never use her key to their flat to get in and then have a shower – she'd go to Mrs Turner's flat if her shower had broken. This meant that there was an intruder. And it annoyed Sherlock that it had taken him getting into the flat to realise – he usually discovered these things before he got to the front door.

'Oh God Sherlock, did you leave the shower on? The water bill's going to be astronomical!'

Sherlock didn't bother correcting his friend's mistake; he was far too concerned with who was in their flat, and how they had been so clever to cover their tracks that he hadn't noticed them until now. And, more importantly, why were they having a shower? He stepped into the flat pensively, trying to deduce everything he could, and to his extreme surprise and annoyance, failing.

'So I'll just go and turn off the shower too shall I?'

Sherlock, deep in his mind palace, was oblivious to John's question. John, being used to this, stormed off in a huff to the bathroom, to switch off the shower. There was a short pause while John did this, and then some swearing (John's), coming from the bathroom. John walked out, red-faced and slammed the bathroom door.

'Sherlock, why is there a naked woman in our shower?'

'Well if she's having a shower, I'd hardly expect her to be clothed.'

John's face reddened even more.

'_You know what I mean.'_

'John, I believe we may be host to one of the world's greatest minds. This could be interesting.'

'Well then, what is she doing in our shower?'

'Washing herself, I'd expect. Isn't that what people normally do in showers?'

'Surely she has her own shower for that purpose. And anyway, how do you know she is so 'great'. You haven't even seen her.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John's face acquired a beetroot tint.

'She managed to break in without leaving any trace-'

'Well apart from that _tiny _detail about her having a shower…'

Sherlock glared at him.

'I always notice a break in, long before I actually get into the flat. People, unbeknownst to them, leave traces where ever they go, clues. Through the angle of the door handle, scratches around keyholes, scuffs on the floor, I can tell. We're dealing with someone used to covering their tracks, someone very intelligent. She does it without even thinking about it – why bother covering your tracks when you break into someone's flat, and then do something as conspicuous as have a shower? She's our new client, and I believe she's on the run from something.'

John scowled, and went to sit in his chair. Unfortunately, he didn't notice its new occupant …

'Fucking hell!'

John jumped up suddenly. He had just sat on a slightly bedraggled German shepherd dog, which had been sleeping in his chair. It responded to this rude assault by barking aggressively and baring its numerous sharp teeth. Sherlock and John scrambled onto the desk, pressing their backs flat against the wall, while the dog launched itself at their feet.

'So not only are we are playing host to a very clever woman who is currently utilising our shower, but apparently also to her delinquent, rabid dog!'

'I think the dog's rage has something to do with you sitting on it John.'

The bathroom door opened, and a woman emerged from the steamy atmosphere in a fluffy white bathrobe, long dark curls dripping with water. She sauntered confidently into the room, as if she owned the flat herself, her piercing blue eyes taking in the spectacle of the two men pinned against the wall. John noted her pale skin and well defined cheekbones … in fact, she looked strikingly similar to Sherlock. Sherlock remained silent, and just looked stunned.

'WOULD YOU MIND CALLING YOUR BLOODY DOG OFF US?' screamed John.

The woman smirked – John had seen that smirk so many times before, but on the face of his best friend.

'Here Sheba.'

Her voice was quiet, but assertive. The dog instantly obeyed.

'Right, err, thank you,' Said John somewhat awkwardly, jumping down from the desk.

The woman just carried on staring at Sherlock. Sherlock looked genuinely shocked. For once in his life, he was lost for words.

'It's been a long time, brother mine.'

Sherlock's eyes got curiously shiny. If you didn't know him better, you'd say there were tears in his eyes. But Sherlock wasn't one for crying.

'Araminta …'

**Please Review :) Constructive criticism very welcome.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Thank you so much to Ballykissangel, writingdesksandravens, AzureAceStarburst, A-D-E-E-E-R, Katylin Lou and lostfeather1 for your reviews, they are very much appreciated. You made my day ****:)**

**Another big thank you to all the people who've followed and favourited this story, your support means a lot.**

**AzureAceStarburst, this is indeed based on the BBC version of Sherlock, that stars Benedict Cumberbatch. Also, to answer your question on why Sherlock immediately leaped to the conclusion that the break in was by 'one of the greatest minds'; I believe Sherlock has a flair for the dramatic, and immediately wants things to be more exciting than they actually are, so rather than it just being a clever burglar, he wanted to assume it was something far grander. However, I also understand that he is very precise, and wouldn't make a dodgy deduction just because he likes to exaggerate. Sherlock was quite annoyed and intimidated by the fact that he didn't notice the intruder long before he got into the flat – in an indirect way, he had been outsmarted, and being a very arrogant person who thinks a lot of his intellect this cut deep. So he didn't deduce that he was only dealing with a clever burglar, because that would be to acknowledge that he was tricked. Sherlock considers himself to have a great mind, so to be trick by anyone other than a 'great mind' would be demeaning. I hope that makes some sense.**

**Another thing; this is set in 'His Last Vow' just after John discovered that Mary had lied to him. John's staying with Sherlock for a bit until he settles down and can accept Mary again.**

**Anyways, I think I've babbled on for long enough now, down to business. Here's the second instalment, I hope you enjoy it. :)**

**Disclaimer: No, I still don't own Sherlock or any of the characters, other than Araminta :(**

For a few minutes, Sherlock stayed on the desk, his back pressed firmly against the wall as if he was trying to disappear through it, continuing to stare at Araminta unblinkingly. Araminta returned the stare just as stoically, wet hair dripping onto the carpet at regular intervals. Sheba the dog just looked adoringly into her mistress' eyes, and started whining because no one was paying her any attention. John stood in between the pair, eyes flitting between each as if he was watching a tennis match. The awkwardness had made his eyebrows rise ever closer towards his hairline, and he began drumming his fingers on the side of his leg. Nobody spoke. John appeared to be very interested in a small spider in the corner; there was a palpable tension in the room. Eventually, John cleared his throat a little to attempt to diffuse it.

'Err, so … are you two actually going to say anything to each other? You know, being brother and sister and that …'

Both pairs of icy blue eyes simultaneously turned to glare at him. John got the impression that he was missing something.

'OK, that's a little bit creepy … I'll go and make us some tea.'

John was relieved to leave the presence of Sherlock and Araminta. She looked _strikingly_ similar to him – there was the same kind of facial structure, the same ghostly pallor to her skin and those eyes … well, he had to admit that the eyes were practically identical. It wasn't just the physical qualities of the pair that were similar either – the similarities in their mannerisms were striking too. She did that funny little half smirk that he was so used to seeing flit across Sherlock's face. And she had that same air of bored indifference that was synonymous with her brothers. John thought that he should be angry and shocked that Sherlock hadn't told him he had a sister. But he then remembered that this was Sherlock he was dealing with, the man who considered his brother to be his arch enemy. His sister was probably his nemesis too. He heard raised voices coming from the living room and began to wonder exactly what had caused such a rift between the pair … perhaps when they were kids Sherlock had pulled the head off her Barbie and then she got revenge by squashing his pirate hat. John chuckled to himself while he imagined a small, chubby child Sherlock having a tantrum.

Startled out of his imaginings by the water boiling, John poured it into three cups, and stirred the teabags, watching the clear water metamorphose into a fragrant, dark brew, mulling over the two people in the living room. Making tea was a very soothing, therapeutic job to him. He was shocked however when the door slammed heavily. Internally swearing, he abandoned the tea and went to see what the fuss was about, wondering what on earth Sherlock had said to Araminta to provoke such an impassioned reaction. Why couldn't his friend act like a normal, polite human being for once? Why did he always feel the need to tear people apart?

'Jesus Christ Sherlock! What did you say to her?'

John was shocked however when he saw that it was Araminta left in the room and Sherlock who had stormed out.

'Oh. Err …'

John coughed awkwardly, and blushed when he remembered how he had walked in on her in the shower. Araminta just stared at him penetratingly and unforgivingly.

* * *

><p>Mycroft sat at his desk, running his fingers exasperatedly through his rapidly thinning hair. The press was giving him grief because some buffoon in his office had employed a security guard who had a criminal record, involving drug trafficking, among various other seedy offences.<p>

His central London office had a perfect view into the street below; he gazed longingly at the bakery opposite, and his stomach rumbled grumpily. He did adore the Chelsea buns they made down there, and it would just take a quick phone call to reception to get his PA to bring him a box of them. They were so soft, and sticky, and lushly sweet … But no. No way. Mycroft, who practically ran the British Government, was not going to be beaten by a few sweet buns. He was a man of strength, rigour, willpower, and he would stick to his principles. But surely just one wouldn't hurt … he was having a hard day after all …

He was woken from his cream bun fantasies with a start however when he saw Sherlock cross the road. Now Sherlock never visited Mycroft. If Mycroft wanted Sherlock, then he very much had to contact him himself, and he would never be a welcomed visitor. So for Sherlock to suddenly show a bit of familial sentiment and start checking on him was freaky, and it worried Mycroft. It meant that Sherlock was in trouble. He had a discouraging feeling that his day was suddenly going to get 10 times worse.

After about 2 minutes, there was a brisk knock on the door.

'Come in, Sherlock' called Mycroft in mock joviality.

Sherlock flung the door open, slammed it behind him, and strode into the room, looking flustered and anxious. Odd, thought Mycroft, very odd.

'And to what do I owe this great pleasure?' He smiled superciliously, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Sherlock paced up and down erratically a few times, before turning suddenly to face Mycroft, slamming both his hands down on his desk. His ice blue eyes burned with intensity. Mycroft didn't even bat an eyelid. He just extended his sardonic smile, and raised his eyebrows further up his forehead.

'She's back.'

Mycroft looked confused for a few moments. And then it dawned on him. He rubbed his face in his hands and leaned far back in his chair.

* * *

><p>'Has Sherlock gone out then?' asked John<p>

'Apparently'

Another awkward silence. Araminta's eyes bored into his.

'Would you like some tea?'

'Have you got anything stronger?'

Without waiting for an answer, she flounced straight past him into the kitchen, followed by Sheba (whose lip curled when she trotted past John, revealing her stellar collection of teeth) and began rummaging around in the cupboards. John shrugged his shoulders in disbelief, muttered a sarcastic 'Help yourself then' under his breath and followed them in. Araminta had found a large bottle of whisky. She unscrewed the lid, and took a few generous gulps from the bottle.

'We do have glasses you know'

Araminta appeared to have not heard this. She walked back into the living room bottle in hand and flopped herself onto the sofa, pouring some more of the whisky into her mouth. She laid flat out, eyes closed, her wet hair tumbling over the arm of the sofa making a wet patch on the carpet. Sheba began licking the neck of the bottle, savouring the potent liquid, until ordered to stop with a mere flick of the hand by Araminta. The dog then proceeded to curl itself up in John's chair. John wasn't having any of this – he would not share his chair with a manky flea-ridden dog that wanted to eat him. He hesitated a little, contemplating Sheba's strong jaws, and then attempted to tip his chair up and the dog onto the floor. He quickly returned the chair to its upright position however when a vicious growl issued from the evil flea-bag, as John termed her afterwards. He had to settle for Sherlock's chair, and sat uncomfortably opposite the dog, that kept one eye open and fixed on him.

'I'm glad you've made yourselves at home.'

The sarcasm wasn't lost on Araminta, but she chose to ignore it. The awkwardness was becoming unbearable to John. Why did Sherlock have to leave him alone with his even crazier (as if it was possible to find anyone more of a nut case than Sherlock) sister? Oh, and her dog that definitely thought he was for dinner.

'Are you close to Sherlock then?'

John immediately regretted the question. Suggesting that Sherlock might be close to a family member was like suggesting a sardine might be close to a hammerhead shark. Araminta sat up labouredly, rolled her eyes, and turned to face John, taking another swig of whisky.

'I don't know how Sherlock can bare being around idiots all day long. I've been in your presence a grand total of 5 minutes and I already want to murder you.'

John blinked a little in surprise, very much taken aback.

'I'm guessing rudeness, arrogance and unsociability run in the family then.'

Araminta tipped her head back, flashing her regular white teeth dangerously in a kind of grin come grimace.

'You're forgetting genius. Iraq or Afghanistan?'

John smiled, his lips pressed together firmly, batting his eyelids innocently.

'I'm also forgetting immodesty and a super-inflated ego.'

Araminta lifted the bottle up to her lips, not taking her piercing gaze off John, and gulped down some more.

'So which was it?'

'Afghanistan.'

'Well aren't you going to act surprised or impressed or annoyed or something?'

'I've already seen your brother make deductions like that. I was kind of expecting it.'

Araminta scowled.

'Ickle baby brudder Sherlock seems to have made quite an impression on you. It's weird. He's not the type to have friends, and lovers are out of the question.'

'I'm married to a woman, for the record. My love for Sherlock is purely platonic.'

Araminta giggled girlishly; the whisky was coming into effect. But soon she was wearing her stoic, emotionless mask again.

'Of that I had no doubt. Funny how you're staying at Sherlock's though when you've only been married for 10 months. I'd say you've been here for quite a few weeks, judging by the amount of food in the fridge. Married life not working out for you?'

John's face darkened. The side of Araminta's lip twitched in a fleeting smirk.

'Ooh – touched a sensitive spot have I? Got a lot of _AGRO _haven't you?'

'_Shut it' _

John's had acquired a threatening inflection. Araminta smirked as she took yet another swig from the quickly depleting whisky. There was a long silence as John tried to calm himself down. He then attempted to make conversation again.

'Is there a big age gap between you and Sherlock then?' asked John in what he hoped was a bright and friendly manner, although he was still fuming about Araminta's reference to Mary.

'I'm half an hour older than him. We're twins. He hates being the youngest.'

John's mouth dropped open in astonishment. How could Sherlock have thought that it wasn't important mentioning he had a twin sister? At that moment, his phone beeped – he had a message from Sherlock:

**Whatever you do, don't let her out of your sight**

**SH**

John returned his phone to his pocket, sighing in disbelief and irritation. If it was so important that Araminta was supervised, why the flipping heck didn't Sherlock do it his bloody self, rather than running of like that? Why was it that the Holmes brothers were incapable of keeping tabs on their own goddam siblings? No sooner had he returned his phone to his pocket than it beeped again; he had another text from Sherlock:

**Keep hold of your revolver**

**SH**

Now that was worrying; was Araminta hiding from someone? Was she in danger? If so, why did Sherlock think that leaving her was a good idea? Araminta kept watching him suspiciously from the corner of her eye.

John's phone emitted another beep as he held it in his hand, pondering over the last text. He clicked on the message icon, and his stomach did a somersault.

**I should have mentioned; my sister is a convicted murderess**

**SH**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: Thanks for reading my story! I hope this lived up to your expectations. All will be revealed in the next chapter…<strong>

**Please review, and let me know what you thought of it, or if you have any suggestions. Constructive criticism is always very welcome ****:)**


	3. Chapter 3

John slowly lifted his eyes from his phone, half expecting to see Araminta towering over him with a kitchen knife. She was just lying on the sofa however, flicking through the newspaper aimlessly, with a bored look on her face. He then reread the text. Yep, it definitely said what he thought it did the first time. He was sitting opposite a murderess. John, needless to say, was furious. Why did Sherlock think it was OK to leave him alone in the company of his murderous sister? And, despite his nerves of steel, he was also a teeny bit terrified:

WTF Sherlock?

Almost instantaneously, Sherlock replied:

Just don't let her out of your sight. She's dangerous. You will need your gun SH

John aggressively switched the screen of his phone off, and stuffed it unceremoniously into his trouser pocket. He then glanced again at the infamous sister, who was now draining the last drops of whisky into her mouth. While drumming his fingers anxiously on the arms of his chair, John began to plot the most subtle way he could get his gun from its hiding place in the desk, into his pocket; he did not want to be unarmed in the presence of a homicidal Holmes.

'About the gun in the top left hand drawer of your desk that you're presumably planning to get –'

Her tone was disinterested and matter-of-fact, and she kept her eyes fixed on the newspaper she was flicking through. John's mouth gaped and his eyes got wide. Araminta turned to face him.

'Oh please! You're as transparent as air! Was it Sherlock who texted you? Or Myke? I'm guessing that look of morbid terror means you've found out my secret. Anyway, the gun is already in my dressing gown pocket. It's my protection. Text Sherlock telling him that if he sends anybody over to come and get me, his bestie blogger get's it. That's you by the way.'

She smiled sweetly, and very artificially, and then turned back to her newspaper, her affected grin replaced by a look of complete indifference.

'Likewise, if you try leaving…'

Araminta trailed off, finishing her sentence by miming shooting John with her hand.

I'm now being kept hostage by your psychopathic sister. She has the gun.

John stared stonily at Araminta, his brows furrowed darky and eyes set grave. She didn't seem to notice however, or care very much about his presence. Instead she called Sheba over to her and ruffled her fluffy ears. The dog put one paw reverentially on her mistress' arm, and licked her nose. John, after learning he was now a hostage, was more than a little bit pissed off.

'So what now?' John's tone was deadly serious.

'Hmmm?' Araminta continued to pet Sheba.

'You've just declared that if I go anywhere you'll shoot me. You're a murderess on the run, and all you can do is lounge around drinking whisky and reading the paper. What now?'

'Hand me your laptop'

John looked puzzled. 'Why?'

Araminta began reaching a hand into the dressing gown pocket. John quickly obeyed her order.

'Why thank you. Password?'

'Surely you can guess it as easy as me telling you?'

Araminta smirked, tapped a few keys and pressed enter. The computer started logging on.

Although John had said that Araminta should guess his password, and although he was more than very aware of the Holmes' stupendous powers of deduction, he was still surprised that she had worked out his password in a matter of seconds. It felt invasive; this woman who didn't know him at all could just read him like an open book.

'How did you know?' John continued to stare at Araminta, his expression stressed and nonplussed.

Her ice blue, piercing gave met his, amusement dancing on the surface, although it was the cold, callous amusement of a cat playing with a helpless mouse.

'The first few letters are easy to guess. They are, in all probability, the letters you use the most on the keyboard. Not just when you enter your password to log on, but also when you try to access any of your online accounts. A man who leaves a gun in a very visible drawer is fairly careless, not the kind of man who has a separate password for all of his account, so you use this password every single time you try to access anything on your computer. Thus, I looked for the most used keys. You can see that the matt coating of the keys in some areas has been worn down so the keys are shiny, from regular use. The enter key is very used, so is the backspace and the space. The letter S is so used that it is completely shiny. T and B are also very shiny. The other keys are about as shiny as each other, so you can't tell with ones are used more often than others. So we have S, T and B. St is the abbreviation for saint, and when I see a B afterwards, I am automatically lead to assume Bart's. As distant as I have been from my brother's life, I have not been disinterested, and keep a keen eye on the news. Sherlock jumped from the roof of St Bart's. This building is a pivotal one in your life, and as people are inclined to be foolishly sentimental about such things, you therefore used it as your password.'

She had said this soliloquy of deduction without even breathing, and smirked at John's shocked expression. She then proceeded to type into the computer, causing the screen to go blue and various chains of number's and symbols to go whizzing across the screen.

'Err, what are you doing?'

'Oh, just hacking into dear Mycroft's account. He thinks that it's safe from cyber-attacks. Not when his little sister is the one attacking.'

'Why?'

'Oh please, John. I know the exertion of thinking must be excruciating for your pathetic excuse of a brain, but this is primary school stuff. Mycroft can control absolutely everything with his computer. He's literally just a few clicks away from starting a nuclear war if it takes his fancy. With his computer system broken, he no longer has the upper hand. Don't bother trying to evade Mycroft in London, when he can control every single CCTV system and can lock every single door. Instead, mess it up and run when he can't see you. There we go,' She clicked enter, 'CCTV is now down all over London.'

She leapt up from the sofa grinning, with remarkable energy considering she'd just downed a bottle of whisky. The contrast from torpor to vivacity was incredible. John's phone beeped.

'Your phone, John.'

She held out her palm accommodatingly. John reluctantly gave up his phone. Araminta checked the text, and laughed, slightly demonically. She read the text out to John:

'Tell Araminta that if she stops now, and hands herself in we're prepared to offer her a full pardon. If not, the consequences for her are dire, MH. Oh Mycroft, ever the politician, ever the diplomat. You understand that I'm dead either way?I do just luuurve winding him up. Let him just try and catch me. The thing with Myke, is that he's nothing without his computer, his power. I'm safe from him now. It's Sherlock I'm concerned about now. But he's certainly the more reasonable of the pair. The more human – well, for a Holmes'

She giggled again.

'What should I reply? I know.' She typed a message and sent it quickly, chucking the phone back to John. He read it:

Ciao, dear brother mine. How do like the CCTV shut down? If you think I'm handing myself in, you've got another thing coming. Any dire consequences to me will be reciprocated to John Watson. I've killed before. Don't make me do it again. AH xx

John wasn't quite sure what to do. He watched Araminta put on some boots which were much the worse for wear, and enrobe herself in Sherlock's old coat, over her dressing gown. It reached her ankles. She winked at her reflection in the mirror. Well, the Holmes' certainly shared a unconventiality in dressing, and a disinclination for wearing underwear.

'Sheba, John ¡Vamos!'

She flung open the door to the flat and flew down the stairs, coat and now dry curls flaring out behind. John followed; the risk of being shot if he didn't was quite persuasive, and even if he was safe from this risk, he wasn't sure the rest of London was. Once outside, Araminta raised a decisive arm to beckon a taxi, and a black cab accordingly pulled up. Instead of getting in the back seat, like a normal person, she opened the door, and sat next to the driver. John peered in behind.

'Oh bloody hell, not you again.'

The taxi driver happened to be the same one Sherlock deduced a few hours ago, and when he saw John and mistook Araminta for Sherlock, he thought he was going to be ferrying around those nutters again. The reality was worse; he was right to swear. Araminta smiled sweetly, and pointed the gun in his face. He wasted no time in getting out, with his hands above his head. Araminta took the driver's seat, and Sheba hopped in beside her.

'I'm really sorry, um, this lady is deranged, I'm so sorry, this is nothing to do with me-'

'Get in the cab John!'

John shrugged, looked apologetically at the taxi driver, and jumped in beside Araminta, and Sheba, who was taking up most of the space. The cab sped off, leaving the taxi driver looking helplessly on.

* * *

><p>Mycroft sat at his desk, his head in his hands and let out a low groan. The ever erratic Sherlock paced neurotically around the room with a flagrant disregard for the furniture; he climbed over the smart leather armchair, his restless hands incessantly brushing through his mop of dark curls. Eventually, he stopped fiddling with his hair, reached into his pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes, lit one, inhaling deeply, before sitting on the back of an armchair, so his feet rested on each arm.<p>

"Sherlock put that out at once. This is a designated no smoking area. If anybody knew …'

Sherlock rolled his eyes exasperatedly and exhaled, causing smoke to drift out of his nostrils, dragon-like.

'If anybody knew they wouldn't care. You have the power to sack anyone of them. Besides, have you nothing better to do than instigate immoral office protocol? It might have escaped your notice but currently our mentally unstable sister, who died 10 years ago, is gallivanting around London with a gun, and John, her hostage. What are we going to do?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and said nothing. He was not one who often got stressed, but his eyes belied anxiety and strain. He fiddled with a pen for a few moments, remaining silent.

"Do you have any cigarettes to spare?"

Sherlock chucked Mycroft the packet, which he just caught, and the lighter, which he didn't. Frowning, with a cigarette between his lips, he made his way to the front of the desk to retrieve it. Perched on the edge of his desk, he lit the cigarette, and took a long drag.

"Araminta has succeeded in closing down my whole computer system. My system had access to those of the government and secret service, so they are also infected by the virus she so thoughtfully introduced. All communication systems are down, all CCTV systems are down; all databases are down, as are all security systems, grâce à Araminta. In short, not only are we unable to track our dear sister, the whole infrastructure of the country is vulnerable to even the most unsophisticated terrorist attacks and infiltrations. The question is not what can we do, little brother, but what can't we do.'

Sherlock shot Mycroft a look of utter contempt.

"So you suggest we do nothing?"

"No Sherlock, merely that there's not much that we can do."

"What, so we just wait here for something to happen? Wait for her to kill again? Wait for her to kill John?"

"She died."

"Not one of your best deductions Mycroft, considering she very much alive and kicking as we speak. She must have faked her death somehow – you've got to admit, it runs in the family."

Mycroft's eyes glazed over, and focused on a patch of thin air just over Sherlock's shoulder.

"She died, Sherlock. I killed her."


End file.
